They'll Never Know
by sarahcap27
Summary: For several months, Charlotte d'Artagnan has kept her gender a secret from the Musketeers. Everyone believes she's a boy. And she intends for it to stay that way, no matter the cost... or not. Fem!D'Artagnan
1. Chapter 1: They'll Never Know

Chapter 1: They'll Never Know

AN: I only have a vague idea of where I'm going with this, so all suggestions and ideas are welcome.

Also, to avoid confusion, the pronoun I'm using for d'Artagnan is she. D'Artagnan will only be referred to as he in a character's direct thoughts or when a character is speaking.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Musketeers, not even a single bit.

* * *

Charlotte d'Artagnan was in a very, very big mess.

Honestly, she wasn't really sure how it happened. Her father had been traveling with her to Paris, just for a bit of rest and relaxation, when they stopped at an inn. She went to take care of the horses while he got a room. Then, a man claiming to be Athos of the King's Musketeers raided the inn, murdering d'Artagnan's father in the process. D'Artagnan couldn't let that cruel, heartless man get away with that. So she disguised herself as a boy and went to challenge this Athos... and, well... everything just went downhill from there.

Now, several months later, d'Artagnan personally knew Athos, Aramis, and Porthos as close friends. The Inseparables, as they were dubbed, had even decided to train her. Everything felt absolutely wonderful.

Except d'Artagnan was still disguised as a boy.

And no one still alive in the entire world knew about it.

Everyone believed her to be a boy, even the Musketeers. If - no, _when_ someone saw through her perfect little mask, she would undoubtedly be exposed, and then she would probably be hung. Or something like that. The authorities could try to burn her at the stake instead. It had almost happened to Comtesse Ninon De Larroque, after all.

But, one might ask, why would d'Artagnan be sentenced to death for this? Well, to put it simply, women didn't have the same rights as men. For lying to everyone for such a long time, yes, she could very well be hung.

In hindsight, d'Artagnan should've told everyone the truth after she had dueled with Athos, or maybe after she had helped clear his name. They wouldn't have hung her then, not when she had only lied to them for a day. But if she had told them, then she would've been forced to live the life of a dainty, dignified lady and eventually marry someone. She didn't want that. And she might have gotten a bit carried away with everything after meeting the Inseparables.

So, d'Artagnan stuck with her disguise. She kept up her act flawlessly, never having even a small slip up.

But there was a _slight_ downside to this.

She had to pretend to be mute.

Because d'Artagnan sounded like a woman when speaking, she couldn't talk without blowing her carefully constructed disguise. If anyone heard her speak, they would know she was a female. Frankly, it was annoying. But, seeing no other solution, she had no choice except for falsely claiming to be mute.

It was difficult at first. She became accustomed to it eventually, though, and also became quite comfortable with it. As long as she never spoke, the woman could whimper and cry out when she needed to. She could still claim to be mute and make noises like humming and whining. When she realized she could do that without being questioned, it had alleviated her burden greatly.

But she couldn't speak, and it was frustrating, in a way. There had been times when d'Artagnan desperately wished to voice her thoughts, but she kept silent instead. She could never risk being discovered.

Because no one, not Athos, Aramis, or Porthos - not anyone at all - could know that she, Charlotte d'Artagnan, was a woman.

Never.

* * *

They deserved a good, long break.

After the Inseparables and d'Artagnan had discovered the poison, saved the Cardinal, and then saved Comtesse Ninon De Larroque, the four were exhausted. They at least wanted to buy a few drinks at a local tavern.

So that's exactly what they did.

The three Musketeers, along with d'Artagnan, had decided to wearily drag themselves over to the tavern. And upon entering the building, they chose to sit in the darkest corner of the room. Or, well, Athos did. The other three just followed him.

Athos didn't always decide to separate himself from others. He only did so when he was reminded of his past, and the appearance of Milady at the trial hadn't helped. His three companions were only allowed to sit with him because he felt too tired to insist otherwise.

So there they were, sitting at a table in the most secluded corner of the room they could find. For a long while no one uttered a word. Then a bit of wine was had, and it wasn't long until Aramis began to ramble and tell stories.

"Before Adele, I once knew a woman like the Comtesse," he commented. "She was beautiful."

Porthos grunted. "You knew a lot of women in the past."

"Ah, yes," Aramis agreed with a slight smirk.

D'Artagnan had actually liked the Comtesse. No, scratch that - she had loved her. Not only did the woman believe in the education of females, but she also was a staunch believer in the equality of men and women. If all people were equal, d'Artagnan would be able to become a Musketeer without the fear of being discovered and hung. And oh, how wonderful such an idea was! It was disappointing to hear that such an amazing woman was to be sent away.

"Are you going to drink your wine, d'Artagnan?" Porthos asked.

The young woman in disguise glanced down at her glass. It was still full and untouched.

In response to the question, d'Artagnan pulled out a mini chalkboard and a piece of chalk. These items had been gifts from her father and mother when she was young. Because she claimed to be mute, d'Artagnan now used the chalk and chalkboard as her primary way of communicating with others. Writing words with chalk took longer than speaking, but it sufficed. It was better than not being able to communicate at all.

_I __don't want to drink right now,_ she wrote on her board.

It was a poor excuse, but Porthos still accepted it with a nod. In truth, d'Artagnan never drank wine. If she ever became drunk, she could accidentally reveal her secret, and that would not be good. The very idea of such an occurrence caused her to shudder in fear.

"As I was saying," Aramis said. "There once was this woman I knew..."

"Was she the one that slapped me when I mentioned your name?" Porthos interrupted lazily, as if he already knew his companion's thoughts.

Aramis grinned. "Yes, that one."

"I seem to recall that she nearly killed us in our sleep," Athos stated calmly.

They laughed awkwardly, and d'Artagnan smiled. She remembered that event. While she couldn't say it was pleasant, it had been fun witnessing Athos restrain the woman and tie her to a pole. And when the female lunatic began chewing Aramis out for something he did... well, let's just say that Athos felt a bit annoyed after being so rudely awakened for this. He would never hurt a (mostly) harmless woman, but apparently his threats could be very scary. Who knew he always kept a dagger under his pillow?

"D'Artagnan couldn't sleep for a week after that," Porthos said, eliciting a chuckle from Aramis.

D'Artagnan blushed. She'd admit Porthos' statement was true, albeit exaggerated, but who could blame her? Being murdered in her sleep by a crazy woman was a terrifying prospect, even during the times she slept in the same room as the Musketeers.

D'Artagnan also remembered that, on the nights she slept in the same room as the Musketeers, she always wore at least three layers of clothing. Others would tease her when she did so, but she didn't care. Keeping her gender a secret came first.

"I was speaking with Constance earlier," Porthos said, breaking the silence that had briefly fallen over them. "And she told me she had never seen d'Art shave."

Three pairs of eyes turned to said woman - or man, as the Musketeers believed. They stared at her intently.

At this, d'Artagnan visibly stiffened, panic rising in her chest. A look of horror crossed her face. She had finally done it. She had finally blew her cover, and now they would all know the truth. No, no, no... this couldn't be happening! She didn't want to DIE!

Noticing her expression of horror, Porthos laughed and clapped her on the back. "It's okay. I remember the time when Aramis couldn't grow a beard. He had been only- hey!"

Porthos spun to glower at Aramis, who had just punched him in the shoulder. But Aramis feigned innocence, completely ignoring the other Musketeer and pretending as if nothing had ever happened. He casually took a sip of wine, then yawned. This only made Porthos raise an eyebrow.

Finally, after pretending to accidentally notice his companion's gaze, Aramis did a double take.

"What?" he asked.

At that, Porthos only huffed good-naturely and turned away. Aramis started to do the same, but then suddenly stopped as if contemplating something. He appeared as if he was trying to remember something he had forgotten to do. After an extra moment of thought, he twisted to face d'Artagnan.

"I've been meaning to ask: are you hurt?" he inquired.

D'Artagnan furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. Why was he asking that all of a sudden?

"I'm only concerned," Aramis continued. "You usually don't tell us about your injuries. Well, obviously you can't _tell_ us since you're mute, but you could still bring it to our attention somehow."

Porthos nodded in agreement. "Yeah, you always hide your injuries. There was that one time where you had a gash on your leg..."

"And the time when your arm was bruised," Aramis added.

"And the night you broke your nose..."

"And the time you had a nasty cut on your hip..."

"And the time you let a small cut get infected..."

"And the day you dislocated your shoulder..."

"And the time you had multiple burns..."

"And the time with the _bees..."_

D'Artagnan glanced back and forth between Porthos and Aramis as they added to the list, a growing expression of shock on her face. How exactly did they remember all of this?

"And the night you were stabbed in the leg..."

"And the time you let _another_ cut get infected _again..."_

It was true: d'Artagnan usually never told anyone about her injuries. She had always been afraid that Aramis would treat her, would notice something was different about the shape of her body, and then would realize what she was. Sure, her body did appear a tiny bit boy-like after years of working on a farm, and she could pass for a skinny boy. She also had a scarf tied around her already small chest to hide her curves. But if Aramis poked around enough, she knew he would inevitably discover the secret she had kept for so long.

"And the time you sprained an ankle..."

"And the night you skinned your side..."

"And the day you needed so much... s-stitching..."

"And the time you... the time you _passed out..."_

Aramis choked on the last two words. He doubted he would ever be able to forget the day when that horrible event occurred. Athos and Porthos seemed to slump in their seats, clearly distressed by the reminder of what had happened to their youngest a few months ago.

To be honest, d'Artagnan actually couldn't recall what had happened to her a few months ago, on that day, the time before she had passed out. They had been ambushed on a mission, she believed. There was fighting, and then excruciating pain, and then blood... yes, lots and lots of blood.

But none of that mattered. Because after d'Artagnan had been treated and woke up, no one had realized she was a woman. As long as no one knew her secret, she was fine.

A brief minute passed. Everyone remained silent - Athos, Aramis, and Porthos because they were lost in sad memories, and d'Artagnan because she couldn't speak.

It wasn't until the woman in disguise shifted uncomfortably in her seat that Aramis, who had been staring into his glass of wine, looked up. He gazed at her with a solemn expression. Eventually the others joined him, until all three men were staring at d'Artagnan. It caused her to feel uneasy.

Then, suddenly and abruptly, Aramis' entire demeanor changed. His previously forlorn look vanished. He perked up slightly, a small grin upon his face.

"You'll forgive us if we make sure you aren't injured, d'Artagnan."

The young woman suddenly tensed, before relaxing and repeatedly blinking in confusion. Aramis wasn't making a move to check for any injuries on her body. In fact, the Musketeer wasn't moving at all. Strange. When he'd said that, she'd thought...

"Porthos," Aramis said lowly.

At that moment d'Artagnan understood, but it was too late. Porthos, who was beside her, grabbed her by the arms and held her in place. He pulled d'Artagnan to him until the back of her head leaned against his chest, allowing her legs to remain under the table. And his hold was _strong._ Despite the woman's frantic attempts to break free, Porthos had no trouble in restraining her. He tightened his grip. She wouldn't escape.

No, d'Artagnan couldn't let this happen! If Aramis inspected her body for injuries, he could notice something was wrong, and he could notice she was a woman! IT COULDN'T END LIKE THIS!

As d'Artagnan increased her struggles (She couldn't allow this, she couldn't let them know!), Aramis casually came over to her. He smiled.

"We're only concerned."

His tone implied that he truly was, but d'Artagnan knew this had to be a joke. She wasn't harmed. They knew that, right?

Desperate, she looked to Athos, silently pleading for help. Since they had sat in a secluded corner of the tavern, no one else was around except him. Perhaps he would see the unreasonable silliness of Aramis' and Porthos' acts. But she was disappointed when Athos only watched the scene unfold before him, looking on with a bemused expression.

The first thing Aramis did was give her a quick look-over, checking for major wounds in almost a lazy manner.

"No visible blood... that's good," he said to himself.

Aramis' first, brief inspection actually didn't worry d'Artagnan. It was the part that came next that bothered her.

"As for bruises, broken bones, and internal bleeding..."

Like a dam bursting, D'Artagnan struggled wildly, trying to jerk out of Porthos' grasp. If Aramis even touched her, he would be that much closer to discovering her true identity. They could finally unveil the truth. And worst of all, d'Artagnan wouldn't be able to do anything about it.

The woman in disguise kicked, pulled, pushed, jerked - anything to escape and just get away from Porthos and Aramis. They couldn't find out! She had to escape, she had to fight!

Upon seeing d'Artagnan's hysterical reaction, Aramis almost wanted to order Porthos to release her. Was something wrong with their youngest? He had never received a reaction like this before. Was d'Artagnan... afraid? Not afraid of him, surely? Aramis would never hurt d'Artagnan.

But then the Musketeer forced the idea out of his mind, thinking nothing of it. _He's just being stubborn,_ he thought to himself.

And so Aramis resumed his work, gently poking and prodding at d'Artagnan's body. He was only checking for broken bones by doing so, but the young woman in disguise reacted as if he was torturing her. Aramis continued nonetheless.

By this point, d'Artagnan was panicking. She had been treated by the Musketeer before, but not like this, not with her arms restrained. She felt unprotected and very, very frightened.

Oh god... NO! This couldn't be! She never wanted this! It wasn't her fault she was female! THIS COULDN'T BE THE END! SHE WAS TOO YOUNG TO DIE!

Aramis delicately jabbed at her side, still ignoring her frantic attempts of escape. Nope, nothing broken. Maybe a broken rib, perhaps?

He raised a hand, preparing to check that area. Still panicking, d'Artagnan choose this time to let out a soft, vulnerable cry - all she could do while still pretending to be mute. She shut her eyes (No, no, no, NO, NO! Don't let this happen, not here, not now!). But this didn't stop Aramis. His hand lowered, and...

"Enough, Aramis," Athos commanded. "He's not injured. He'll only hurt himself like that."

The older Musketeer appeared to be a bit distraught, probably caused by d'Artagnan's distressed cry. Athos could never stand watching their youngest like this. Not when d'Artagnan seemed so desperate and vulnerable. It was unbearable.

In response to the command, Aramis backed off, but did so reluctantly. D'Artagnan was acting strange. Something had to be wrong, and it worried the Musketeer. He wanted to know what was wrong.

Once Aramis had moved away, and d'Artagnan's body relaxed, Porthos released his temporary hostage. D'Artagnan jerked forward as if she had still been trying to free herself. She immediately scooted closer to Athos, her face betraying her fear of what had almost occurred.

This action concerned the Musketeers. They knew of d'Artagnan's tendency to conceal her injuries, but why was their youngest acting like this? Why was she afraid? And of what? They didn't understand.

But no one mentioned this. They just brushed it off, believing it to be nothing of importance. The memory of the incident would soon be buried deep within their minds, forgotten to everyone besides d'Artagnan.

And later, the four would go to their homes and call it a night. When they awoke the next morning, they probably would all have a hangover - all except for d'Artagnan. She didn't drink, after all. But, what might be worse, the woman wouldn't have even slept a wink. All night, she would have been just laying there, thinking and brooding over the evening's events.

And she never, ever wanted a repeat of that terrible, terrible occurrence in the tavern again.

She couldn't allow it. So she would just have to be more careful.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: A Stitch in Time Will Not Save Nine

AN: Psycho17 asked me if this will be an Athos/d'Artagnan or Aramis/d'Artagnan fic. Honestly, I have never written anything with romance in it, and I don't know if I want to try now. So the answer is probably no. But maybe.

And I have no idea how people in the 1600's actually shaved, so I kind of made it up. The internet wasn't very helpful with that.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Musketeers, not even a single bit.

* * *

D'Artagnan stared at the knife in her hand, gazing at its smooth, sharp edge. It glinted in the light.

The morning had started off nicely. Despite her lack of sleep, the woman had gotten out of bed with a reasonably functional mind, and suddenly, an idea had just popped into her head. A very simple idea, but rather smart, in her opinion.

Yesterday, Porthos had wondered why she never shaved. So what if d'Artagnan _did_ shave?

Well, she didn't want to actually shave. She would only pretend she was doing so, and when Constance came to check on her like she usually did every morning, it would appear to her as if d'Artagnan was shaving. Then Constance would tell probably tell the Musketeers about it, and no one would ever suspect anything about d'Artagnan. The thought that she was a woman wouldn't even cross their minds.

And now d'Artagnan was in her room, holding a knife, a bucket of water by her side, and was ready to begin.

Except there was a _tiny_ problem.

D'Artagnan didn't know how to shave.

She was certain she needed some sort of razor, so she had decided to use a knife. She also knew some people had a bucket of water with them when they shaved, but d'Artagnan had no clue what it was for. Shaving only involved cutting off facial hair, right? What was she supposed to do with water? Maybe wet hair was easier to cut than dry hair... yes, that must be it.

If d'Artagnan remembered correctly, most people also preferred to shave in the bathroom instead of their room. But Constance wouldn't check on her if she was in the bathroom, so d'Artagnan couldn't do it there. Besides, the woman in disguise felt more comfortable in her own room.

But her main concern, and the reason why she was hesitating, was that d'Artagnan didn't know how to shave without cutting herself. It was pathetic, yes, but true.

So d'Artagnan simply stared at her chosen razor, her body unmoving and still. She told herself she was waiting for Constance to come and check on her, but in reality the woman just didn't know what she was doing. All d'Artagnan needed to do was pretend. That was all. So why did it have to be so difficult for her?

The woman in disguise had seen blood before. She had felt the pain of being struck with a sword, of being hit over the head with the butt of a musket. She had watched the lights go out in a person's eyes after she ran them through with her own sword. Others had been _killed_ by her hand. And here she was, afraid of a silly knife.

D'Artagnan weighed the the object in her hand. _You're only pretending._ The blade didn't actually need to touch her face. She wasn't going to cut herself. _You're only pretending._

A few minutes passed, and yet nothing changed. D'Artagnan narrowed her eyes at the knife she held. The object seemed to glare back, reflecting a ray of sunlight in her face. This only made her blink.

Then, finally, after what felt like a couple of years, d'Artagnan slowly but bravely raised the knife. Her gaze followed its sharp edge as it moved. She brought it closer to her skin, only a few inches away from her cheek. Now very near to her face, the blade gleamed softly as if encouraging her to continue, glinting in the light that shined through the sole window in her room. She moved it an inch. Then another inch. The knife was almost there, just a little bit more...

"D'Artagnan?"

And like that, her concentration was gone. D'Artagnan jumped, startled by the voice. She dropped the knife. After feeling it leave her hands, the woman instinctively attempted to reach out and catch the sharp object, but only managed to juggle with it for a second. The knife then continued its way downward. It landed on the floor with a _thunk,_ its point stabbed in the ground and its hilt sticking up.

D'Artagnan looked down at the knife in shock. The blade was mere inches from her foot.

"Oh my goodness, are you okay? I'm so sorry, I didn't know..."

The woman in disguise turned to see Constance, who had apparently entered the room not too long ago, standing near the door. Her hand was covering her mouth, a look of absolute shock and horror upon her face.

"Please tell me you're okay," she begged. "I'm really sorry, I... I just..."

D'Artagnan immediately whipped out her chalk and chalkboard. _I'm __fine,_ she wrote. She showed the writing to Constance.

Once she was assured of d'Artagnan's well-being, Constance let out a sigh of relief. "Good. I didn't know that you were... uh, shaving."

At those words, d'Artagnan almost smiled. Yes! Even after the small mishap, everything was still going according to plan. Hopefully the rest of her plan would play out perfectly as well.

"Aramis and Porthos are here, by the way," Constance said, walking over to the knife and pulling it out of the floor with a grunt. "They want to see you."

Upon hearing this, d'Artagnan blinked in confusion. The Musketeers hardly ever came here, even for ordinary visits. If they had come just to see her, something had to be wrong, or someone (probably d'Artagnan) was in deep trouble. Either way it didn't bode well.

So the woman in disguise left her room to find the two Musketeers in a bit of a rush. Whatever the problem was, she hoped it wasn't too bad. Hopefully no one was dead. But when d'Artagnan found Aramis and Porthos near the front door, lounging on wooden chairs, they didn't appear to be panicking. They seemed very calm, in fact. Almost as if nothing had gone wrong.

"There you are, d'Artagnan," Aramis said upon the woman's arrival, sitting up in his chair.

When d'Artagnan walked a bit closer, Aramis noticed that she had dark circles under her eyes, like she hadn't slept last night. Hmm. He made a note to tell her to get more sleep later.

D'Artagnan hastily pulled out her chalkboard and wrote, _What's wrong? Where's Athos?_

"Athos left earlier this morning to escort Comtesse Ninon De Larroque to wherever she's going," Porthos answered. "As for what's wrong? You're late."

Late? Oh wait... yes, d'Artagnan was probably late to the garrison. She had forgotten about that after the whole shaving thing.

Aramis stood. "Come on. Captain Treville wants to see us for some reason, and we better not be late for that."

D'Artagnan slumped slightly. So now Captain Treville wanted to see her? Yes, she was definitely in trouble.

* * *

"I expected better of you!"

Captain Treville paced back in forth in his office, hands clasped behind his back in a formal position. From where d'Artagnan stood next to Porthos, he seemed very unhappy.

"I cannot allow either of you to continue to do this," he said to Aramis and Porthos, who were silently standing at attention before him.

Apparently, Aramis and Porthos had been seen dueling with a Red Guard a few days ago. Someone had reported them, and now they had to be punished... or not. Captain Treville hated the Red Guards possibly more than his men did, so d'Artagnan doubted he would dish out any sort of punishment to Aramis and Porthos. They probably would only get a scolding.

"If you don't already know, dueling with Red Guards is illegal," Captain Treville continued. "I trust that this time you'll _listen_ to me and stop engaging in such acts."

According to past experiences, the Musketeers weren't going to listen. They would keep dueling illegally, and this whole situation would repeat itself again and again. Sometimes d'Artagnan wondered if it was all for show. Maybe Captain Treville enjoyed it when a foolish Red Guard was badly beaten in a fight with a Musketeer, and he only chided his men so he wouldn't receive any trouble from the Cardinal. It seemed plausible to her.

Captain Treville stopped pacing to stand in front of Porthos. "I won't punish you this time. But if this happens again, you both will be cleaning the entire armory every day for a week. Am I understood?"

Aramis and Porthos each responded with a soft, "Yes sir."

Treville was lying, and they knew it. He wouldn't punish them next time.

The captain nodded curtly. "Good. And as for _you,_ d'Artagnan..."

The woman stood a little straighter. She hadn't been dueling with Red Guards, so whatever she had done was probably worse and would get her punished. Not that it mattered. His punishments weren't grueling, and she could handle them. But the woman still braced herself for whatever was to come.

"... You have been hiding something from me."

D'Artagnan stiffened. Whatever she had mentally prepared herself for, this was definitely worse. Did Treville... did he know her secret? How could he? She wasn't that obvious... was she?

"All these months," the captain continued, "And you have never told me about it."

Oh no... no, no, no. He couldn't know. But... did he? What had d'Artagnan done that had revealed her true gender to him? No, this couldn't be happening! How could he know while Athos , Aramis, and Porthos didn't?

"You should've told me about it earlier, d'Artagnan."

And now was the time to panic! There was a good chance that he knew, and from this point on d'Artagnan's life was officially over! Treville was going to reveal her secret in front of Aramis and Porthos, no less! Oh god... she was going to die! But... NO! SHE DIDN'T WANT EVERYTHING TO END THIS WAY!

The woman held her breath, her eyes wide.

Captain Treville took a step toward her. "You, d'Artagnan, have a fear of being treated for injuries!"

The woman in disguise blinked. Wait... what? So he didn't know her secret? Oh... well... that was good. That was very good. She quietly exhaled in relief.

"Athos informed me of this before he left this morning," he explained. "Do you even realize how dangerous keeping your injuries hidden can be? If I send you on a mission and you're injured, unfit for your duty, the entire mission could be compromised!"

D'Artagnan hardly paid attention to his words. She was too relieved that he hadn't found out her secret.

But Captain Treville didn't know this, and continued. "I have never seen anyone stitch someone up better than Aramis. You're lucky he's willing to treat you when you're hurt. But you _cannot hide your injuries!_ If you ever do that, I will personally tie you down to a table while Aramis stitches you up. Do I make myself clear?"

Finally understanding what the captain was saying, d'Artagnan nodded. If she was ever injured again, she would probably still hide it, and then Treville would tie her down to a table. In that situation, Aramis would find out she was a woman while he stitched her up. Her life would be over. But yes, she understood.

After a moment, the captain turned toward his desk. "You're all dismissed," he said.

Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan left immediately. And if the two Musketeers noticed anything strange about d'Artagnan's behavior, they didn't talk about it.

But hardly anything went unnoticed by a Musketeer, especially when it came to a person's odd way of acting.

* * *

The rest of the day had passed quickly. After leaving Treville's office, d'Artagnan had trained with Porthos for a few hours. Then Athos returned, and she trained with him until dark. Everything had been normal.

It wasn't until d'Artagnan had laid in bed that the meaning of Treville's words truly hit her.

_"But you_ cannot hide your injuries! _If you ever do that,_ _I __will personally tie you down to_ _a __table while Aramis stitches you up. Do_ _I __make myself clear?"_

The woman had survived by letting most of her wounds heal on their own. She just poured alcohol on them, and they healed perfectly fine. How else had she kept her secret for this long? Only a few of her past wounds had actually required stitching.

Of course, every time Athos, Aramis, and Porthos discovered that she had again let one of her wounds mend by itself, they always had a fit. But by then, her injuries no longer needed to be attended to. She had done this enough times that the Musketeers stopped complaining about it and blamed it on her stubbornness. It didn't prevent them from occasionally checking for injuries on her body - the time at the tavern being the worst occurrence of this - but no one had discovered d'Artagnan's secret.

Now, d'Artagnan wouldn't be able to hide any of her wounds. Because once Captain Treville found out she had concealed an injury, he could either force her to allow Aramis to inspect her for injuries before _every single_ mission, or he could keep his word and tie her to a table while Aramis checked for injuries. Whatever Treville would do, he wouldn't ever let d'Artagnan hide a single wound ever again.

So the next time she was injured, or perhaps the time after that, they wouldn't let her hide her wounds. They would find out her secret. They would know she was a woman.

Soon, they could very possibly know.

Once the woman came to this realization, she sat on her bed and silently panicked. She curled into ball and rocked back and forth, desperately wishing her life wasn't like this.

Why was she a woman? Why couldn't she have been born a male? Why had she even let herself get into this situation? Why, why, why?!

D'Artagnan whimpered. She never asked for this! It wasn't entirely her fault!

Maybe she should leave the country. Travel to Spain, and then take a ship to China. She'd have to learn a new language, but it was better than being discovered and executed. But then, if she did leave, she'd be leaving Athos, Aramis, and Porthos behind, and she didn't want that. But if she stayed... oh, why did everything have to be so complicated? The woman let out a soft whine.

Then, there was movement outside her door. D'Artagnan instantly quieted. A knock sounded.

"D'Artagnan?" came Constance's voice. "Are you okay?"

The woman in disguise wanted to open the door. She wanted to run out and tell Constance everything. She wanted to confide in someone, in someone who wouldn't betray her.

Constance could be trustworthy. And smart. Maybe, someday, she would put the pieces together and realize what d'Artagnan was. Maybe she would, and maybe she wouldn't.

But d'Artagnan would never tell her. She couldn't bring herself to do so.

Eventually, Constance gave up and left. And eventually, d'Artagnan laid down and allowed her exhaustion to put her to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: I'm Not Injured! Well... Not Really

Disclaimer: I do not own the Musketeers, not a single bit.

* * *

The day after the night d'Artagnan broke down, the woman was extra careful not to get injured. Three days later, she became less careful and more focused on her training. Then a week passed, and all her previous thoughts of why she could never allow herself to be injured were forgotten. Everything was back to normal - mostly.

Constance still knew something was wrong with d'Artagnan. Every day she would ask d'Artagnan if she was okay, and if there was anything she needed. And every time d'Artagnan would shake her head and refuse any help that Constance offered. But Constance persisted, and she probably wouldn't stop until she knew exactly what was wrong. Not that d'Artagnan would tell her anything, of course.

And now, several days later, early in the morning, the woman in disguise left for the garrison. She was confident that everything would be fine, that she wouldn't be injured today. No one would discover her secret, not today.

D'Artagnan couldn't have been more wrong.

* * *

D'Artagnan honestly couldn't see the point of training with Aramis.

On a usual day, the woman trained with Porthos in the morning, Athos in the afternoon, and then Aramis before dark. The three each taught her different skills - Porthos taught hand-to-hand combat, Athos trained her in all sword related things, and Aramis supposedly trained her in the usage of firearms. They had decided on this quite a while ago.

D'Artagnan just couldn't see why Aramis called it "training".

When the woman in disguise envisioned training with firearms, she imagined herself holding a pistol, attempting to shoot the bullseye of a target a distance away. She saw herself constantly firing shots until she finally hit that center red mark, and maybe hitting it a couple more times after that.

But apparently, Aramis' idea of "training" was very different.

"If you look here," Aramis said to d'Artagnan, "this lock on this pistol can only be pulled back so much in comparison to this one, and that's because the structure of the lock is designed in a way that this can't move past this part, and so it only pulls back halfway. But on this one the lock pulls back completely, and..."

D'Artagnan tuned out, stifling a sigh. Aramis had been lecturing her on the different structures of pistols for the past fifteen minutes, and the woman couldn't stand it. Sure, she'd admit that whatever Aramis was saying was probably important - probably very important indeed - but it was also extremely boring. What was he saying now? A snaphaunce? Oh, she had no idea what that was. She should know - really, she should, if she didn't want to mishandle a pistol and accidentally shoot herself in the future - but she didn't want to die of boredom either.

"And therefore this pistol should be used for long distance shots, due to the length of the barrel. But in the middle of combat, well, then you have this other flintlock..." Aramis continued, oblivious to d'Artagnan's inattention.

The woman in disguise wanted to cry. Now don't get her wrong - Aramis sometimes allowed her to shoot at targets during practice. He allowed her to practice using firearms quite frequently, actually. And while she most likely needed to know whatever Aramis was telling her, she did find shooting things far more entertaining.

D'Artagnan truly and honestly thought Aramis was an excellent teacher. Unfortunately, the woman just had a short attention span.

"This is why I suggest you use this pistol more than the other, but you should keep both with you," Aramis annotated. "Because if it comes down to a long-distance battle, you'll need this one."

The Musketeer continued his lecture for another five minutes. The woman in disguise thought it would never end. But then, after that, for some unknown reason, Aramis finally, surprisingly, _miraculously_ ended his lecture. He stopped talking, and it was over. D'Artagnan felt immensely relieved.

And d'Artagnan nearly jumped for joy when Aramis decided to let her actually use firearms and shoot at practice targets.

"Try using a pistol with a longer barrel," he said. "You'll need practice with that."

So now d'Artagnan gazed at a selection of pistols, which were put on the table before her. She debated on which one to use. They all belonged to Aramis, but at least three of them had long barrels, and they all looked the same to her. Seriously, that man owned more firearms than he could possibly use in his lifetime.

The woman never understood why or how Aramis acquired so many firearms. He certainly had a thing for them, though.

After a second, d'Artagnan chose a random pistol. She reached for it, extending her arm until she was touching it. The firearm felt cold against her skin. Her fingertips brushed against the pistol's side for a moment, and...

"NO! MY PISTOLS!"

Before d'Artagnan could blink, Aramis had come beside her and snatched his prized possession out of her reach. His eyes narrowed at her for a moment before his gaze turned to the pistol in his hands. He brought the object to his chest, cradling it like a fragile, newborn baby.

There was a long, awkward silence. Neither person knew what to say or do.

Then, after some time, Aramis gulped nervously. He seemed a bit sheepish. "Uh... when I said to use one with a long barrel, I... um... I didn't mean use mine," he managed to say. "W-why don't you, uh... why don't you get a pistol from the armory?"

Eyeing Aramis with suspicion, d'Artagnan slowly nodded. She began to back away carefully. The Musketeer remained still and unmoving, his gaze following the woman's every movement. She backed away faster.

When she was a good distance away from Aramis, d'Artagnan spun around and ran off. She immediately went to Captain Treville's office. If she was going to take a pistol from the armory, she figured that she would need permission from the captain. And the woman didn't want to anger him by neglecting to ask for permission. It wouldn't be a pretty sight if she did.

So d'Artagnan entered Treville's office. Once she did, she used her chalk and chalkboard to ask her question. And Treville strangely gave his permission to her without question or suspicion. Also, she swore she saw an amused smile on his face as she left. D'Artagnan found this odd. Perhaps the captain knew of Aramis' strange obsession with pistols, and therefore he knew why the woman needed a pistol from the armory? There was a good chance he did, since the two Musketeers had known each other for years. She wouldn't be surprised if Athos and Porthos knew about it too.

D'Artagnan sighed. Aramis wasn't going mad. He had gone mad long ago.

Upon leaving Treville's office, the woman made her way to the armory. She had only been inside the place once before (she was looking for Athos' _oddly_ missing hat at that time - don't ask), but she remembered where it was located.

As expected, D'Artagnan reached her destination without much trouble. The armory was a bit dark, despite the light shining through the two windows in the room. Many weapons of all kinds and designs hung from the walls, and a few other weapons were stored in large chests. Aramis was already inside the room by the time she got there.

"Come here, d'Artagnan," Aramis said once he noticed her presence. He was near the back wall of the armory.

D'Artagnan obeyed and walked over to him.

"Do you prefer this one or this one?" he asked, gesturing to two different pistols hanging from the wall.

The woman shrugged. To her, it didn't matter what pistol she used, so long as it functioned correctly. She honestly couldn't care less.

Aramis frowned at d'Artagnan's response. "You don't have a preference? Hmm... well, I say you should use this one."

He grabbed one of the pistols off the wall. Then his frown suddenly deepened. "Maybe you shouldn't use this one. I think part of the trigger has... snapped off. Probably some other recruit's doing. So it's broken." He furrowed his eyebrows. "But how could someone accidentally break this? It's practically impossible. And why do we even have broken weaponry here? When I find the guy that did this..."

The woman in disguise was content to listen to Aramis talk. Because d'Artagnan was mute (to everyone but herself, at least), she had grown used to listening to others talk while she remained silent. She couldn't exactly have a normal conversation with anyone, so it had to be like this.

"Broken weaponry." Aramis pronounced the words like they tasted bad on his tongue. "Why is it here? It's useless..."

The Musketeer rotated the pistol that he held, turning it to get a better view of the lock. He struck the weapon in frustration.

It was then, in this moment, that d'Artagnan suddenly realized that, by rotating the pistol, Aramis was now aiming the gun at her. A broken pistol - which, to the woman, meant it might accidentally go off - and the weapon was pointed at her. D'Artagnan was understandably startled. She panicked for a second. Her instincts kicked in, and she jumped backwards.

D'Artagnan didn't notice her mistake. The woman in disguise didn't realize that directly behind her, against the wall, there was a very large chest. When she leapt back, she landed on this chest and tripped. Her back slammed against the wall, and the room abruptly exploded into a cacophony of noise. Swords, daggers, and other weapons fell from the wall to the floor, each one landing on the ground with a loud clatter. This created a very, very loud eruption of noise in the room.

Then, just like that, it was over. The noise echoed through the armory for an extra moment before dying down. D'Artagnan found herself sitting atop the large chest in an uncomfortable position.

"D'Artagnan, are you alright?" Aramis asked.

The woman nodded mutely. She had the wind knocked out of her, but otherwise she felt fine.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Did I... do something? Why did you..."

D'Artagnan just scowled. Of course Aramis hadn't noticed he had been aiming the pistol at her. But the woman didn't feel like going through the trouble of telling him that, so she just waved it off.

The woman stood, and they both glanced around, taking in the mess they had just created. There were weapons everywhere. Daggers, knives, swords, and pistols littered the ground. It would take someone a good amount of time to clean everything up.

Aramis winced. Oh, they were in so much trouble.

"What. Did. You. Do?" came a voice from the door.

The two turned to see Athos and Porthos, who had just entered the armory, gaping at them in horror. They were staring wide-eyed at the enormous mess before them. D'Artagnan guessed they were here because they had heard the loud noise which she had caused - the noise of weapons falling to the floor.

"Don't worry," Aramis replied. "I'm sure this is easy to clean up... hopefully..."

"I'm impressed, actually," Porthos stated, his gaze never leaving the piles of weapons on the floor. "You two made a complete mess of the armory in what, less than a minute? I mean, that must take some skill."

Aramis laughed humorlessly at this, but said nothing.

After assessing the disorganization of the room, Athos buried his face in his hands. He stayed in that position for a while. Then, he lifted his head, and sighed.

"Which one of you will inform Treville of this?" he asked.

Aramis fidgeted uncomfortably. "Well, we don't have to tell him. We can clean it up. Or maybe we can tell him it was an earthquake... or..."

The Musketeer stopped, effectively silenced by the incredulous look Athos gave him.

"I vote for Aramis to tell the captain," Porthos chimed in. "D'Artagnan can't talk anyways."

Aramis was indignant. "Hey!"

"I'm only saying it'd be easier that way," Porthos said, shrugging his shoulders.

"This wasn't entirely my fault!" Aramis exclaimed.

The two Musketeers continued to bicker, going back and forth, each of them trying to come up with a better retort than the other. Athos remained silent, watching them both with his calm stare.

And it was then, at that second, that d'Artagnan realized her side felt strange. It suddenly registered to her that just above her hip bone, it felt... wet. But not wet with water. No, not water. It seemed to be some liquid that was warm and thick and... sticky?

She put a hand to her side. A tiny explosion of pain shot through her upon contact. When she pulled her hand away, there was a small spot of blood on her palm.

Oh no.

She was _injured._

Treville's words played through her mind. "...I will personally tie you down to a table while Aramis stitches you up. Do I make myself clear?"

Oh god... she was injured. One of the swords in the armory must've cut her when she tripped. She had to hide it... but she couldn't. Captain Treville wouldn't let that happen, not this time. But if she let Aramis stitch her up, he might find out, he might know what she was. D'Artagnan didn't know what to do.

The woman had a brief panic attack (No no no no no no! Why why why?! Everything was falling apart, she was going to DIE!). Then, she took a deep breath and calmed herself down (fine, fine, everything was fine). Breathe in. Breathe out.

Whatever she would do, d'Artagnan couldn't let anyone know about her injury - not until she had decided exactly what to do about it.

She stole a glance at the Musketeers. They were still arguing, and none of them had noticed d'Artagnan's wound. Perhaps she could sneak out before they noticed?

Moving gingerly, the woman in disguise crept towards the door. No one saw her attempting to stealthily sneak out of the armory. She concentrated on her footsteps, making not a sound. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.

She was almost there, just one more step out the door, and she'd be free. That was all she needed. Just one more step. And she took it, carefully moving forward...

... and she made it.

She made it out of the armory.

A sigh of relief escaped her lips. She had made it. Now, since the sky was rapidly darkening, d'Artagnan could walk home and no one would be suspicious of it - not at this hour. No one had knowledge of her injury, and no one would be the wiser.

So d'Artagnan walked - or limped, in reality - home. She exited the garrison, dragged herself through the streets, then dragged herself through even more streets, found the building of her lodging, limped into said building, trudged past Constance (who only raised an eyebrow at her suspiciously), and climbed up the stairs to her room. By the time the woman had done all this, night had fallen and the moon was visible in the sky.

And once she reached her room, the woman silently closed the door. She leaned against the door and slid down until she was sitting on the ground.

She was injured.

Oh, joy.

* * *

D'Artagnan woke up to the sound of someone knocking at her door the next morning.

Or at least she thought it was the next morning. She couldn't remember falling asleep the night before, so she couldn't say. But it definitely was _a _ morning, because she could feel the warmth of a sunbeam - which came through the window next to her bed - caressing her skin.

There were more knocks, this time louder.

The woman opened her eyes, blinking repeatedly. It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the light, but when they did, she noticed something in her room, something in her peripheral vision. Her head turned.

And there, on the floor, was a bloodied piece of cloth.

Wait, a bloodied piece of cloth? Why was there...

Suddenly, the events of the day before came rushing through her head. Training with Aramis, going to the armory, the injury...

She shot upward into a sitting position. Oh no... she was injured!

"D'Artagnan?" came Constance's voice from behind the door. "Are you in there?"

D'Artagnan sprang out of bed. Panicking slightly, she quickly hid the bloodied cloth in a drawer, stumbling multiple times in the process.

"D'Artagnan, Athos is here," Constance said. "He wants to know why you're not at the garrison yet."

The woman froze. Oh god... Athos was here? No no NO! He couldn't see her like this, not when she had a visible wound!

She looked down at her injury. It wasn't as bloody as the night before (probably because she had cleaned it with the bloodied cloth), but the spot of red on her shirt still stood out far too much. And her wound hurt. A lot.

"D'Artagnan?" Constance called.

Thinking fast, d'Artagnan grabbed her chalk and chalkboard. Then, she dragged herself over to the door and opened it a crack. A seemingly worried Constance was waiting for her just outside.

"There you are," Constance said, a hint of relief in her voice.

Keeping the door no more than an inch open, d'Artagnan wrote on her chalkboard, _I'm s__ick._

Constance seemed confused for a brief moment. But then, to d'Artagnan's dismay, her face hardened. She frowned.

"You're not sick," she stated.

Unable to come up with anything better, the woman in disguise stuck with her story. _Yes_ _I_ _am,_ she wrote. She crossed her fingers, hoping the woman standing outside her room would believe her excuse.

"D'Artagnan." There was warning in Constance's voice.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened, suddenly afraid for her life. No, she couldn't let Athos see her! She couldn't let him see her wound! Aramis would treat her per request by Captain Treville, and he could find out that she was a female! THIS COULDN'T BE OVER!

So, with no other ideas in mind, d'Artagnan sent Constance her most desperate, pleading look. Her eyes begged Constance to believe her, to help her, to keep Athos away. She silently pleaded with her like her life depended on it - which it did.

Seeing d'Artagnan's expression, Constance hesitated. She tore her gaze away from the woman and pursed her lips, a look of indecision crossing her face.

Then, finally, she said, "Okay. I'll tell Athos you're sick."

D'Artagnan exhaled deeply, feeling greatly relieved. Unable to voice her gratitude, the woman settled for sending Constance a genuine smile, receiving a tiny, concerned frown in return.

"Athos won't be pleased," Constance said.

And with that, she turned around and walked off. She was obviously unhappy.

A few seconds later, d'Artagnan could her hear speaking to someone else down the hall. By the sounds that came next, that someone - most likely Athos - stomped down the stairs. He promptly left the building.

When the woman heard the front door close, she relaxed her muscles that she hadn't realized were tensed. Athos was gone, and she was safe. She was alive and still breathing. For now, at least.

Of course, that thought vanished when Constance barged into the room.

"That's it, d'Artagnan!" she shouted, coming in and slamming the door behind her. "You're going to tell me-"

And in that moment, Constance's eyes fell upon the spot of dried blood on a very dumbfounded d'Artagnan's shirt. She stopped. Her eyes widened.

"D'Artagnan, are you... injured?"

D'Artagnan, now very terrified, immediately shook her head. But knowing the pointlessness of her action, she paused mid-shake and nodded hesitantly.

"How did this happen?" Constance inquired. "Did... did Athos do this to you? Or Aramis? Or Porthos?"

Shocked by that idea, d'Artagnan vehemently shook her head.

"Then what happened? Who did this?"

The woman in disguise decided to ignore that question and curl into a ball on the floor. When Constance laid a hand on her shoulder, she pushed it away with her own hand.

"D'Artagnan..."

This time, d'Artagnan lifted her head slightly, stealing a glance at the woman before her. She was surprised to see Constance smiling sadly, d'Artagnan's very own chalk and chalkboard in her hand, which apparently had been lying on the ground beside her.

Constance pushed the items she held into d'Artagnan's grasp. "I know something's wrong. Something's been wrong for a long, long time, and it's been eating away at you. I can tell."

D'Artagnan looked down. Constance had asked her what's wrong before, but never in such a direct way. It made her nervous. She didn't want to lie to Constance outright, but she didn't want tell her the truth either.

Moving gently, Constance tilted d'Artagnan's face upward, forcing the woman to meet her gaze. "You can tell me what's wrong, d'Artagnan. Whatever it is, I won't hate you for it."

D'Artagnan glanced down at her chalkboard. Then, her eyes closed slowly. All these months of secrecy, and here she was, finally being confronted. She could just tell Constance the truth and hope she wouldn't betray her. Or d'Artagnan could keep her secret to herself.

"I promise not to tell anyone," Constance said.

Minutes passed, but it seemed like days. Silence hung over them like a tangible thing, creating an uneasy and tense atmosphere. D'Artagnan was stagnant, lost in her thoughts. Constance only waited patiently.

Soon, when the silence became unbearable for Constance, she spoke again. "I can keep a secret."

And so, after eyeing her chalkboard for a minute, d'Artagnan slowly picked up her writing tools. She gazed at the board for a while. Then, with shaking hands, she wrote, _I've been lying to you._

Constance placed a hand on her shoulder, encouraging her to continue.

But d'Artagnan didn't use her chalk and chalkboard this time. Instead, she swallowed nervously and opened her mouth to speak.

"I-I-I'm n-not a b-boy," she managed to say.

After months of inuse, d'Artagnan's voice was raspy and cracked. To herself, she sounded different and strange. It was odd to hear herself speak after so long.

"I-I'm n-not a boy," d'Artagnan repeated.

Once Constance heard those words, her eyes grew unusually wide. For a while, she only gaped, her mouth hanging open. It wasn't until d'Artagnan became noticeably uncomfortable that the woman came to her senses.

"D'Artagnan... you're a woman?"

Upon hearing that sentence - hearing someone voice her secret - d'Artagnan pulled back, moving away from Constance. She nodded shakily.

The next few minutes were spent with Constance comforting a quivering d'Artagnan and hugging her. She felt terrible for d'Artagnan - not because the woman was in a tough situation, but because for months d'Artagnan had to suffer through this alone, with no one to turn to for help. She had been all by herself for so long.

Constance hugged her tight - because she would never, ever betray d'Artagnan.

"I won't tell anyone," she promised as d'Artagnan stifled a grateful sob. "I won't tell anyone."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: All's Well That Ends Well... Or Not

AN: I'm sorry this update is so late. A lot of stuff happened... including my phone being stolen... and then taking three weeks to get a new one... so... ya.

Anyways, updates should be regular from now on, and I promise they won't be short as this one.

* * *

"Hold still, d'Artagnan!"

Atop a table, d'Artagnan squirmed relentlessly, clearly uncomfortable. She lay face up, her shirt lifted slighty to reveal her recent injury.

Constance pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing. "Please, I cannot treat you when you're constantly moving!"

After d'Artagnan had revealed her secret, Constance had taken a look at the woman's wound and immediately insisted upon treating it. D'Artagnan allowed her do so. She didn't mind. Since Constance already knew she was a woman, she had nothing to hide. It actually was a nice feeling, to be open with someone. But, after so many months of concealment and secrecy, d'Artagnan couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy under Constance's touch - hence the squirming.

"Look," Constance said. "I know you're uncomfortable, but I can't help you when you're like this!"

D'Artagnan took a deep breath and settled down, calming herself. She nodded at Constance.

"Use your words!" Constance commanded. "It's much easier to understand you that way. So much gesturing and pointing can drive a person mad."

At this, d'Artagnan vehemently shook her head. She didn't want to speak! If she got into the habit of talking, she could accidentally speak in front of the Musketeers, and then her entire cover would be blown!

"D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan!"

"I-I'll s-settle down," the woman managed to say, startled by Constance's loud voice.

Upon hearing this, Constance seemed to relax. "Good. You're lucky you don't need stitching for this wound of yours."

Yes, d'Artagnan was very lucky indeed. If her wound had required stitching, it would've taken infinitely longer for the injury to heal. According to Constance, the injury, which thankfully _didn't_ require stitching, would be completely healed in a few weeks. But d'Artagnan didn't need a few weeks, and nor did she have as much time as that. In one week, she should be able to at least pretend she was uninjured, and that was all it took to fool the Musketeers. She only needed to avoid the Musketeers for a week. Just one week.

D'Artagnan wouldn't be surprised if she somehow managed to mess this up. In fact, she expected she would do something wrong. Apparently Constance believed this too, because that woman already had a plan to keep the Musketeers away from d'Artagnan.

Constance's plan was easy and simple. She would tell the Musketeers that d'Artagnan was sick, and naturally the Musketeers would stay away. In reality, d'Artagnan wouldn't be sick; she would be recovering from her wound. Then, after her injury was healed, d'Artagnan would return to the garrison. The Musketeers wouldn't suspect a thing. They would believe she had just recovered from a sickness, and they would never know about the injury.

The plan was practically foolproof. And Constance had come up with it all.

Sometimes d'Artagnan wondered how she got so lucky to have Constance as a friend. After she had discovered d'Artagnan's secret, Constance had held nothing against the young woman. She had forgiven d'Artagnan for everything - for lying, for hiding. It brought tears to d'Artagnan's eyes. Constance had been so understanding and kind to her, even when d'Artagnan only brought trouble.

Constance began to wrap d'Artagnan's wound, careful to avoid direct contact with the injury. D'Artagnan remained perfectly still this time. She closed her eyes, resisting the urge to twitch.

And then, after what seemed like a few moments, Constance was done. She finished wrapping the wound and helped d'Artagnan up, but before the injured woman could leave, Constance placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Promise that you'll come to me if you're injured, d'Artagnan," she said. "Promise that you'll never, ever hide your injuries again."

Constance's eyes were dull and saddened. She seemed so dejeted and worried, yet also serious at the same time.

"Promise me," she repeated.

D'Artagnan stared into her eyes for a moment, then nodded. Since she was a Musketeer-in-training who was always going on missions, she couldn't guarantee anything, but she could try.

And she would definitely try, because this promise was one she intended to keep.

* * *

A week later, d'Artagnan confidently walked into the garrison.

It felt strange for her to see the place again. It seemed like years since she'd last been inside the garrison, but in reality it had only been a week. She luckily hadn't seen the Musketeers for the past week, which meant that Constance's plan had gone nicely. Her plan had gone very nicely, in d'Artagnan's opinion.

Well, it had gone nicely if she forgot about that one incident. Two days after Constance told the Musketeers that d'Artagnan was sick, Porthos had decided to come for a visit. Since she had been stuck in her room, d'Artagnan wasn't entirely sure what had occurred, but apparently Constance had to use a bit of force and a lot of convincing to prevent Porthos from entering her room.

Also, d'Artagnan's side still ached a bit whenever she moved. She wasn't limping, however, so she figured it was fine. The wound would heal completely over time. For now, she would just have to conceal her injury as much as possible.

Taking a deep breath, d'Artagnan steeled herself and began to meander around the garrison, searching for Athos, Aramis, and Porthos. She looked in the usual places - the shooting range, the courtyard - but, for some reason, the Musketeers were nowhere to be found. So she looked around again, and still she couldn't find them.

It wasn't until a bit later that d'Artagnan finally found the Musketeers in the stables. Athos and Porthos were saddling some horses, and Aramis was carrying a bundle of weapons. They seemed as if they were preparing to leave on some sort of mission.

A moment after d'Artagnan had entered the stables, Athos glanced up and acknowledged the woman with a nod. "D'Artagnan."

Aramis and Porthos, who also looked up with Athos, each greeted her with a smile and a soft, "Hello." D'Artagnan only sent them a questioning look in return.

"Orders from Treville," Aramis explained as he strapped the bundle of weapons to a horse. "We're to deliver a very important letter to an important count. And now that you're here, you're coming along too."

D'Artagnan blinked, a bit surprised they expected her to come along on such short notice. She didn't mind going with them, but she needed a couple minutes to pack a few things.

"Don't worry," Porthos said. "The trip will only be a few days."

At that, d'Artagnan frowned. A few days? Well, that made things a bit more complicated. A few days meant that they would have to spend a night or two at an inn, which in turn meant that d'Artagnan would have to sleep in the same room as the Musketeers. But she wasn't afraid. She had slept in the same room as them before and still managed to keep her secret. She could do it again.

"Be quick," Athos said. "We're leaving in an hour."

D'Artagnan nodded and went to prepare for the trip. She was slightly worried that the Musketeers would find out about her injury over the course of the next few days, but such an event was unlikely. And since she had slept in the same room as the Musketeers before, there was really nothing to be afraid of.

What could go wrong?

* * *

The trip was smooth on the first day.

Before they embarked, d'Artagnan had come to the realization that riding on a horse would probably irritate her wound. She was concerned about this, but then, after a few hours of riding, she noticed that her injury wasn't hurting at all. Even with all that bouncing on a horse, her wound felt perfectly fine.

The ride itself was also very peaceful. There were actually a few bandit attacks, but it was nothing that Athos couldn't handle by himself. The attacks were hardly a disruption.

The true problem revealed itself when they had to stop at an inn for the night.

D'Artagnan and Athos went inside to get a room while Aramis and Porthos took care of the horses. The inn seemed rather crowded when d'Artagnan entered, but she paid no attention to this. There was bound to be at least one room vacant.

And there was one vacant room. But that was the problem.

When Athos went up to the pretty girl at the counter and asked for a room, the girl's response made d'Artagnan stiffen in horror.

"I'm sorry," the girl said. "We do have one room available, but it only has one bed."

Of course, Athos took the room. He was perfectly content.

D'Artagnan, on the other hand, was panicking. One bed? She could sleep in the same room as the Musketeers, but not the same bed! How was she supposed prevent them from discovering her secret now? She couldn't handle this! She could die if they found out!

Maybe, if she was lucky, Athos would let her sleep on the floor. She doubted that, though. What if they made her sleep in the middle of the bed... and... NO!

"D'Artagnan, are you alright?"

D'Artagnan was jolted back into reality. Standing before her, Athos was staring at her with a concerned expression.

Realizing she had just been asked a question, d'Artagnan nodded slowly. She hoped the Musketeer didn't notice her slight hesitation.

Athos didn't look entirely convinced by her response, but he let it go. "Stay here. I'll go get Aramis and Porthos."

D'Artagnan nodded again as Athos turned and walked away. Then, when Athos was out of her sight, she sat down in a nearby chair and buried her head in her hands.

Now what?


End file.
